


A Painful Burning Sensation

by kekinkawaii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Human Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kekinkawaii/pseuds/kekinkawaii
Summary: Castiel oscillates between being concerned for his health, trying to place his strange feverish symptoms, and trying to hide them around Dean because they only seem to flare up when he’s around.(Five times Castiel had indigestion and one time it wasn’t.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	A Painful Burning Sensation

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean called out, already in the kitchen when Castiel stumbled in.

“Good morning,” Castiel mumbled, even though it was definitely not a good morning. He was cold and his mouth tasted awful and his head felt like it was stuffed to the brim with fluffy white cotton. He said _Bad morning_ once and Dean had laughed, explaining that you were expected to say _Good morning_ even when it wasn’t. It was, apparently, a Normal Human Thing. Castiel thought it was, as Dean would say, Bullshit, but he was too tired in the mornings to argue over it, so good morning it was and good morning it stayed.

“Coffee?” Dean opened a cupboard, stood on his tiptoes to grab a mug, and offered it out to Castiel.

“Yes, please,” Castiel said gratefully. Coffee, he’d discovered very early on, was essentially nectar to the humans. He hadn’t liked it at first until being introduced to the magics of cream and sugar—afterwards, well.

“Addict,” Dean said quietly, grinning. Castiel didn’t bother to retort, simply took the mug from Dean’s hands and meandered over to the coffee pot that was happily burbling away like a babbling creek.

He poured, leaving ample inches at the top that he overflowed with cream and sugar before stirring with a spoon. He carried it to the coffee table, careful as to not spill it, and then inhaled the wondrous roasty scent, feeling his eyes flutter closed, early morning grumpiness overridden by the smell, and then taste. 

“You need some alone time with that thing?” Dean said from the kitchen, where he was cooking something presumably from the clatter and sizzle.

“Yes,” Castiel said, and took another sip. Dean laughed softly before returning his attention to the stove. He was humming something this morning that Castiel couldn’t place.

The sizzling sound continued, and soon, the coffee aroma was mingled with something else—bacon. And pancakes. A classic breakfast, because it was Sunday, and Sundays meant Dean always took a little extra time in the mornings and spent the rest of the day loose-limbed and lazy-eyed. Castiel drank his coffee, basking in the scents and sounds and feeling that fog in his mind gradually float away.

He’d finished half of it by the time Dean sidled over, two plates in his hand. He dropped one down at Castiel’s side of the table.

Castiel peered at the the amalgam of pancakes with what appeared to be strips of bacon stuffed in the centres. “Dean, what is this?”

“Bacon pancakes,” Dean declared loftily, pointing a fork at him. “The two of the best breakfast foods, _combined._ Mouthgasm-worthy.”

Castiel opened his mouth, about to ask about that unfamiliar word—but Dean had already wandered back to the kitchen to grab his own mug of coffee, black.

“What are you waiting for?” he said after returning, snapping his fingers at Castiel. “Try it!”

Wary, Castiel eyed the bacon pancakes before forking up a bite from the corner and sticking it in his mouth. He chewed, and blinked at the combination of flavours and texture.

“Good?” Dean said.

Castiel swallowed, and then began to slice out another, bigger bite. “Very good.”

Dean grinned. “Awesome,” he said, and then dug into his own plate. They ate in silence, then, punctuated only by the clinking of their cutlery and the vague snippets of Dean’s humming. 

It was _Fool in the Rain,_ Castiel suddenly recalled. By Led Zeppelin. It had been in the cassette tape Dean had given him. (A gift, and he kept those.)

Dean looked up, catching Castiel’s eye—Castiel hadn’t realized he’d been staring. Dean raised an eyebrow at him and grinned again, green eyes flashing. 

Instantaneously, something tumbled in Castiel’s stomach.

Castiel nearly dropped his fork in alarm.

“Cas?” Dean said, eyes filling with concern. “You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Castiel said. “I just felt… strange for a moment.”

“Hmm,” Dean said skeptically. He reached out a hand all the way across the table and casually laid it over Castiel’s forehead. “You don’t feel too warm.”

Castiel inhaled sharply at the sensation that immediately returned, doubling abruptly, like a thousand tiny beetles scuttling in his stomach. “Oh.”

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Dean’s voice skidded up into alarm. “Are you sick? Hurt?”

“I…” Castiel took a deep breath and let it go in a thin stream. He repeated this until the feeling ebbed away, leaving nothing but a vaguely-queasy aftertaste. “I’m fine now, I think.”

“You sure?” Dean was halfway out his chair, eyes still wide and trained on Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel said.

Dean pursed his lips. “Maybe you have indigestion,” he said. “From eating too quickly. Hell, I know my pancakes are good, but don’t snarf them down like that, alright?”

“Fine, Dean,” Castiel said. He _had_ been eating the pancakes fairly quicker than normal. He took another swallow of his coffee and felt his stomach settle. 

Dean sighed and sat back down, and they finished their breakfast in relative peace after that. Castiel was careful not to eat too quickly, but it was rather difficult—the bacon pancakes were _very_ good. Gradually, the alarm bells at the strange incident dimmed in the back of his mind, until it was all but forgotten.

That is, until Dean had gathered up their dishes and declared that it was about freakin’ time that Castiel would help out in the kitchen by now. They rolled up their sleeves and stood side by side in the sink, Castiel studying Dean’s hands under the running tap, sponge squeezing soapy suds over the plates.

“Sam always says to dry them afterwards, but it’s just water, so why the hell would you have to dry water? Just throw ‘em in the cupboards after.” Dean cut off his long-winding ramble about sponges and soap and how to properly wash a glass by taking his own plate out of the stream of water and setting it aside on the countertop.

“Now you try,” he said.

Castiel took the plate tentatively, cautious of how slippery it was from the dish soap. Taking the sponge from Dean’s hands, he scrubbed the bits of burnt bacon off the plate. Afterwards, he lifted his clean plate from the sink and turned off the tap with his other hand; studied it against the light glinting off. “It looks clean.”

“Sure does,” Dean said. He was standing at Castiel’s side, the two of them crowded in front of the relatively-small sink, so close their elbows bumped, and when Castiel turned to grab Dean’s plate as well as his to put back in the cupboards, he nearly ran straight into Dean—jostling his side and stumbling. Dean steadied him with a hand on his side and another on his shoulder, and Castiel hid his surprise by fussing over the plates in the cupboard, taking his time until he calmed down, because that feeling, it had just happened again.

Maybe he still hadn’t eaten the bacon pancakes slow enough, he decided. But a little bit of indigestion was worth it.

The symptoms waned for a good half-hour after that. Castiel walked to a forest trail near the Bunker that Sam did his morning runs at, and listened to the birds and smelled the leaves and grass and dirt and felt the soft squishy ground under his feet. He saw a rabbit, a deer, and a snake, and mentally made a note to ask Sam and Dean about buying a camera.

When he returned, he found Dean in the garage with only his legs visible, his head and torso completely obscured underneath the hood of his car.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said.

Dean’s legs jerked in surprise and there was a loud _bang!_ followed by a swarm of curses.

“Sorry,” Castiel said.

Dean grunted, and then he began to shuffle and squirm until his head peeked out from the car, his hair a mess and his face smeared with streaks of dark oil. “S’fine,” he said. “Hey, Cas.”

“What are you working on?” Castiel asked, noticing the wrench in Dean’s hand.

“Nothing fancy,” Dean said. “Just an oil change.”

“I thought the gas stations did that for you.”

Dean wrinkled up his nose like the idea was appalling. “You think I trust those people to touch my car?”

“No,” Castiel admitted.

“Exactly.” Dean disappeared under his car again.

There was a murmur, a clatter, the drip-drip-drip of oil that ascended into a stable stream, and then Dean’s voice floated from just out of view, “You just gonna stand there and watch?”

“Did you want me to help?” Castiel said.

A pause. Dean shimmied until dubious green eyes popped back into view. “You wanna learn to fix the car?”

Castiel shrugged. 

Dean watched him for a moment, and then grinned, wide and boyish. “Could’a just asked,” he said. “C’mon down here.”

With a feeling of impending doom and a shimmer of barest apprehension, Castiel went down onto the ground and scooched over to the car. Feeling faintly ridiculous, he ducked his head down low and mimicked Dean’s motions, shimmying until he was halfway under the car.

It was dark, was his first reaction. The second was that it smelled absolutely awful. The third was that the ground was riddled with gravel and rocks and sand and they dug into Castiel’s back through his shirt.

“Alright, so,” Dean said, seemingly completely unaware of these things and totally at ease, “see this little screwy cap thing here? That’s the drain plug. It, well. Plugs the drain. I’ve already unscrewed it, and now we’re waiting for the oil to finish pouring out into that pan right there. S’gonna take about five minutes more.”

Castiel squinted until his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, and saw the things Dean was pointing out. The stream of oil was pitch-black and shiny, and seemed to constantly emit those awful, awful fumes. It was all pooling down into a shallow metal tray.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Smells bad, huh? You get used to it.”

They both watched the oil drain steadily away into the pan, the quiet trickling noise nearly hypnotic. Combined with the lying down and the darkness, Castiel could nearly forget about the smell and drift away into a half-sleep. His eyes slipped closed.

Just a few moments later, something wet swiped across his nose.

Castiel’s eyes shot open and he stared straight at Dean, who was grinning like a cat with a canary, his finger held right in front of Castiel, dripping black oil up the first knuckle.

“Dean,” Castiel said, a warning.

Dean reached in again, too fast for Castiel to jerk back, and this time it was across his cheek—wet and sticky and smelling horrible and pungent and disgusting and Dean looked much, much too gleeful at that.

The oil pan was only an arm’s reach away. Castiel stretched for it.

“Oh, no you don’t—” Dean said, but Castiel’s hand was already coated, and Dean was laughing, now, scrambling away, but Castiel lunged and whapped Dean right on the face, leaving a huge black handprint across his cheek.

“Cas!” Dean bellowed, and while he was disoriented, Castiel did it again, on his shirt this time.

“This is my favourite shirt, you asshole!”

“No, it’s not,” Castiel said. “And even if it were, why are you doing an oil change with it, then?”

“Because—because!” Dean scrambled for the oil pan and Castiel, alarmed, started to shimmy his way out of reach. He got halfway out the bottom of the car when he felt Dean’s hand clamp over his ankle, the oil sinking into the denim of his jeans, and Castiel braced himself and kicked, only to hear an aghast yell and a loud, metallic clatter.

“Truce!” Dean shouted. “Okay, okay, truce!”

Castiel waited, and then he shimmied out from the bottom of the car. He stood up, dusting himself off—or, rather, grimacing at the feeling of oil all over his face—and listened to Dean curse up a blue streak as he repositioned the oil pan back into place and finished the rest of the oil change.

“You started it,” Castiel said, when Dean emerged with a pouty glare, positively drenched in oil.

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Cas,” he finally said. “Never do an oil change.”

Castiel just smiled, something ratcheting up in his chest at the sight of Dean’s face, Dean’s chest, Dean’s shoes and socks, dirtied up to hopelessness. He imagined he must look no better. It was peculiar—he should be disgusted, he should be furious, but instead he was grinning.

Dean’s glare softened, and then he rolled his eyes, but the smile tugged at his mouth, too.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and ran a hand through his hair before he realized his mistake and groaned. “I need a shower. _You_ need a shower.” He stepped closer, bumping Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “C’mon, before it dries. Trust me, you don’t want it to dry.”

Castiel followed Dean into the Bunker. Every so often, they’d catch each other looking—at the splatters of oil smeared on their faces, their hair, their clothing—and Dean would grin and shake his head, eyes warm like sunlight, and Castiel’s stomach tumbled again, more frantically this time, as if making up for the downtime from the past hour. 

It was getting rather concerning, but at the moment, covered in engine oil and jostling elbows with Dean, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care.

They ran into Sam on the way to the showers, whose eyebrows shot up to the ceiling as he caught sight of the two of them.

“I don’t even wanna know,” was his reply. “Just—take a shower, will you?”

“Planning on it,” Dean said smoothly, and Sam pulled another face and scuttled away to his room.

The scent didn’t bother him anymore, Castiel realized.

After what was definitively the longest shower he’d ever had (he must have used half of a whole bar of soap, scrubbing helplessly at his ankles), Castiel made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch (grape jelly was his favourite, second strawberry—orange marmalade he didn’t like) and ate it very, very, very, very slowly. And then topped it off with a glass of warm water afterwards, because Google said that it would help with digestion. Of course, if he had Crohn’s Disease like WebMD had said, warm water would have zero effect, but Castiel was willing to try.

Inexplicably, he found himself at the shooting range. Dean had always talked about shooting things calming him down, and while Sam preferred a 10-mile run instead, he’d also begrudgingly admitted the therapeutic effects of target practice. Perhaps it would help him get over this indigestion of sorts. 

Of course, that plan went bottom-side-up when Dean found him there not fifteen minutes later.

“Spread your feet wider apart,” Dean murmured, standing inches behind him to mimic and correct his stance, hands fluttering from Castiel’s hips to his hands. “And turn your torso a bit more towards the target. See how that puts your eyes right in line with the target?” 

Castiel followed Dean’s instructions, albeit distracted—maybe a little irritated, maybe a little alarmed—at the unyielding escalation of the turmoil in his stomach.

“Your heart’s racing,” Dean said, voice muffled from the earplugs. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel said through gritted teeth, and pulled the trigger. It missed.

“Slow down,” Dean said. “You have to squeeze the trigger, not pull it. Be gentle—deliberate. The gun is an extension of your body, you can control where the bullet goes.”

Castiel exhaled until his body was trembling with the lack of air. He squeezed the trigger.

“Good,” Dean said, right into his ear.

It was getting _worse._ By the time he ran out of shells, Castiel felt as if he was going to pass out from the rioting in his stomach, where a swarm of bees and birds and butterflies had joined the beetles in their chaos. Evidently, shooting did not calm him down.

He’d tried everything. With a sinking feeling of resignation, Castiel accepted his defeat. It was time to come clean. If he truly was ill, it would be much easier to treat if it were addressed sooner rather than later. 

He found Sam in the library. Sam was the more placid Winchester, Castiel decided. If Dean discovered Castiel was sick, or worse, if he had a UTI, there would most likely be a lot of shouting, and yelling, and throwing things, and with the way this day had turned out, Castiel wasn’t sure if he was up for handling that at the moment.

“Sam,” Castiel said, “there is something wrong with my body.”

Sam looked up from the library table. He was halfway through a thick novel that looked so old just watching it made Castiel’s nose itch with phantom dust. “What?”

Castiel chewed on the inside of his lip—he’d picked it up a few days ago and didn’t know why. It hadn’t been something he’d ever done before. There was something oddly disconcerting, yet somewhat comforting, about the repetitiveness of the action. “I’ve been experiencing a… discomfort in my stomach regions lately.”

Sam’s eyebrows came together and he closed the book, keeping his index finger to remember his place, turning a little in his chair to face Castiel fully. “Huh,” he said derisively.

“I Googled it,” Castiel said, feeling oddly defensive. “WebMD said it was Crohn’s Disease.”

“Um,” Sam said. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Crohn’s Disease.”

“Then it’s a UTI,” Castiel decided, recalling the hefty list the webpage had spat out.

Sam pulled a face. “Yeah, no,” he said. “Maybe you just had something weird to eat. What did you have before these symptoms started?”

Castiel tried to remember. “I had coffee for breakfast,” he said slowly. “With cream and sugar.”

“Well, coffee is a laxative,” Sam said carefully.

Castiel thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve had coffee many times before,” he said. “And these symptoms did not occur.”

“Okay,” Sam mused. “What else did you eat?”

“Bacon pancakes.”

“Oh, right,” Sam said, nose crinkling up at the memory. “Dean’s been on an experimental streak lately. I told him, meat doesn’t go in pancakes.”

“I thought they were okay,” Castiel said. “Sam, what’s a mouthgasm?”

Sam jerked out of his chair and nearly fell over. When he straightened, he sputtered for a moment before saying, “Sorry, what?” in a faint, bewildered voice.

“Dean told me the pancakes would give me a mouthgasm,” Castiel mused. “Maybe it’s a metaphor for indigestion.”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed like a fish before he visibly steeled himself and squared his shoulders. “No,” he said, and then, more firmly, _“No._ Absolutely not. It’s, uh, it’s—” He looked somewhat pained.

“You know what,” Sam finally said, “you should ask Dean to explain it to you.”

Castiel nodded. “Fine. Do you think the bacon pancakes gave me indigestion?”

“You’ve had both before, haven’t you?”

Nod, again.

Sam tapped his fingers against the spine of his book. “Hmm. Probably not, then. What else happened today? Did you eat anything else? Any heavy exercise?”

“After eating, I helped Dean wash the dishes. And then he taught me how to change the Impala’s oil. And then I was in the shooting range with a gun.”

Sam frowned. “Well, all of that sounds pretty normal to me, honestly.”

“Which is why these symptoms are so alarming.”

“Could it be—you don’t think it’s a curse, do you?” Sam was all business, then, eyes serious. “Did you maybe touch anything weird in the Bunker? Enter any unknown rooms?”

“No,” Castiel said honestly.

“Huh,” Sam said. “I’m stumped. Sorry, Cas.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel offered. “The symptoms are not too bad.” In fact, they were all gone, now. He felt—content. Maybe a little thirsty. A little tired, and there was a strange tickling in the back of his sinuses that would traipse into a sneeze later on, but those were all Normal Human Things.

The rush of heat down his neck and into his ears, the topsy-turvy sensation in his lungs like he was being whirled into the air? That was definitely not a Normal Human Thing.

“Alright, then,” Sam said apologetically. “Maybe it’s just indigestion.”

“Maybe,” Castiel said half-heartedly.

“I’ll keep an eye out, though. Let me know if it gets worse?”

“Okay. Thank you anyway,” Castiel said, and then, after shifting his feet awkwardly for a moment, turned around and padded out the library, feeling Sam’s worried eyes lingering on his back for a few seconds until he went back to his novel.

So. Sam didn’t know what was wrong. He had been rather adamant about it not being any of the more serious diseases, though, so Castiel filed those away. And when the rest of the day passed without further incident, he—very tentatively, very cautiously—let himself relax, bit by bit.

By dinnertime, he had nearly convinced himself that he had fully recovered.

Which is why, when Dean looked over his shoulder at an approaching Castiel and smiled at him from the kitchen and Castiel’s stomach wrenched in protest, Castiel felt the final tendrils of his patience wither away.

“Hey,” Dean said, noticing. “You good?”

“Dean,” Castiel said, “I think I have indigestion.”

“You what now?”

“Indigestion,” Castiel muttered.

Dean reached over and clicked the stovetop off, turning and half-leaning on the countertop facing Castiel. “And what makes you think that?”

“Well,” Castiel said. “I have been experiencing a… painful burning sensation.”

Dean pulled a face. _“What?”_

“In my stomach,” Castiel clarified. “And my lungs. And my throat. Sometimes.”

Dean’s expression was steadily growing more and more bewildered. “What the hell, Cas? Are you okay?” He was striding closer, now, his hand rising up to Castiel’s forehead again. “You don’t have a fever. You didn’t have one this morning, either.”

He frowned, head tilted, eyes scrutinizing Castiel’s face. His hand, still resting on Castiel’s forehead, absently brushed back his hair. 

“It’s happening again,” Castiel said, and then a realization struck him so harshly he staggered back.

“What’s wrong?” Dean said immediately, stepping closer to close the gap even more so than before.

“It’s you,” Castiel said, accusation dripping off his voice. He scrambled back to clear the distance between them. His mind whirred, flicking back to the events of the day—the oil change, the pancakes, the dishes. “You’re doing it.”

Dean took one step closer, saw Castiel tense, and raised his palms in surrender. His eyes were trained on him carefully. “Cas, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not doing anything.”

“You are,” Castiel insisted. “It’s—it’s happening every time I’m in close proximity with you.” He felt alarm, sharp and bitter, in the back of his throat. “Every time you’re near, my stomach reacts like it’s—like it’s being turned upside down, and I feel feverish but I’m not sick. It must be a curse, or a hex, or—”

“Hold on,” Dean interrupted. There was a glimmer in his eyes, something Castiel couldn’t quite make out. “Say your symptoms again.”

“I told you,” Castiel said, a bit impatiently. “My stomach turns and I feel hot all over.”

“And now?” Dean took a step closer. “Do you feel it now?”

“Yes!” Castiel said, exasperated.

“What about now?” Dean was very, very close now. Castiel’s heart was going to leap out of his mouth.

“Worse,” Castiel said.

“And what about now?” Dean murmured, and kissed him.

Castiel made a soft, shocked noise in his throat as the sensations in his stomach grew tenfold. He felt as if he would vibrate right out of his skin. Dean kept his hands on Castiel’s face, thumbs lightly stroking across his cheekbones, brushing under his eyes, each touch skittering across a burst of sparks.

When he pulled back, Castiel made a tiny sound of protest. 

Dean was smiling so hard he looked like he’d burst. “What about now?” he said.

“It’s not indigestion,” Castiel whispered.

“Nope,” Dean said, and leaned in to kiss him again. This time, Castiel surged into it, arms wrapping around Dean’s neck and rising up to the tips of his toes. Dean laughed against Castiel’s lips and Castiel’s stomach tumbled, topsy-turvy and dizzying and it was the best feeling he’d ever felt.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just a sucker for domestic Bunker vibes and human Castiel discovering Just Human Things. I hope you liked it too ^^
> 
> Thanks for reading! <333


End file.
